


Watson shows Holmes the true meaning of Christmas

by mistyzeo



Series: Holiday Ficlets 2010 [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2011-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for <a href="http://crimson-adder.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://crimson-adder.livejournal.com/"><b>crimson_adder</b></a>, who has done me many favors this week.  ♥  blowjobs ahoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watson shows Holmes the true meaning of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimson_adder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimson_adder/gifts).



His hair is silky under my fingers, thick enough for me to get a good grip, and I pet with one hand even as I grab with the other, holding him in place and smoothing a lock at his temple at the same time. His eyes are watering but he gives me a hint of a smile as he glances up, as much as he can with his mouth full, so full of my cock. He's gorgeous like this: cheeks pink and blue eyes intent as he sucks me down, the brush of his moustache against my stomach almost as much of a tease as his tongue fluttering over my head. I clench my hand again and he moans as I pull him up, and he seals his lips around the tip of my prick, laving my flesh and making me shudder. I push up, flexing my hips, and I slide deep into his throat.

We shouldn't do this here—not in the middle of the sitting room, not in the middle of the afternoon—but he is persistent and seductive and a few words from him have me hot and aching. He can touch my wrist and whisper a suggestion and I will be angling to get him alone, behind locked doors. He paints me as cold, unfeeling, mechanical, but it's only because he knows how hot-blooded I can be, how wanton and desperate he can make me.

He draws my attention back to him with two fingers against my sac, wet with his saliva and the fluid leaking from my prick, making a slick mess of everything. He's pulled my trousers down around my thighs and pushed my waistcoat and shirt up above my navel, and his hands even on that space of skin so small have me squirming. He holds my hips and sucks my cock, and I feel huge and thick in his mouth, pushing open his throat. I worry about his leg like this, him kneeling on the floor in front of my chair, but I can see his erection distorting the line of his trousers and I know he'd stop if he were in too much pain. Instead he digs his fingers into my hips and groans, and I tip my head back.

It's snowing. Out the window I can see the roof across the street acquiring its layer of white, but in here it's much too hot—I can feel the sweat at my temples and at the back of his neck. He tugs on my hips and I buck up, wishing suddenly and starkly for his fingers inside me. He can read me now almost as well as I read him at our first meeting, but in far more intimate matters, and he recognizes the way my knees spread and the noise that breaks free from my throat. I can see the quirk of his mouth, and he slides those two fingers between his lips, alongside my prick. They rub along the underside of my cock, firm and demanding, and I moan again, gritting my teeth. I wish he could fuck me here, now, but I know he's intent on his goal.

The fingers slide between my legs, slippery and hot, and press against the entrance to my body. I try to slide down farther in the chair, spreading myself for me, but he's trapped me with his hands and his mouth and his body, and a teasing pressure is all I get. I hear myself whine, hungry for him, and he slips the fingers inside me. The angle is imperfect but he finds my spot and presses, and I hitch up into his mouth uncontrollably, cursing. He takes me easily and I can feel my orgasm rising, fast and inevitable. I try to warn him, but I'm too busy sliding my cock into his mouth, rocking on his fingers, and he doesn't need the warning. He lets go of my hip, lets me free to thrust, and takes a short, sharp breath. I grip his hair, holding him, and he allows it as I rise and rise and squirm, and he's ready when I come, pulsing hard down his throat, shuddering helplessly.

He sucks me through it, drawing the orgasm out wave after wave until I'm weak and panting for mercy. He lets me down gently, presses a kiss to my bare stomach and looks up at me, mouth pink and wet. I give his hair one last gentle squeeze and tug him up for a kiss, tasting myself between his lips.

"Fine," I say eventually, barely removing my mouth from his, "you win. We can have a bloody Christmas tree."


End file.
